Collected Poems 1897 - 1907, by Henry Newbolt Part 9

A thousand years by sea and land Our race hath served the island kings, But not by custom's dull command To-day with song her Empire rings:

Not all the glories of her birth, Her armed renown and ancient throne, Could make her less the child of earth Or give her hopes beyond our own:

But stayed on faith more sternly proved And pride than ours more pure and deep, She loves the land our fathers loved And keeps the fame our sons shall keep.

* These lines, with music by Dr. Lloyd, formed part of the Cycle of Song offered to Queen Victoria, of blessed and glorious memory, in celebration of her second Jubilee.

The King Of England

(June 24th, 1902)

In that eclipse of noon when joy was hushed Like the bird's song beneath unnatural night, And Terror's footfall in the darkness crushed The rose imperial of our delight, Then, even then, though no man cried "He comes,"

And no man turned to greet him pa.s.sing there, With phantom heralds challenging renown And silent-throbbing drums I saw the King of England, hale and fair, Ride out with a great train through London town.

Unarmed he rode, but in his ruddy shield The lions bore the dint of many a lance, And up and down his mantle's azure field Were strewn the lilies plucked in famous France.

Before him went with banner floating wide The yeoman breed that served his honour best, And mixed with these his knights of n.o.ble blood; But in the place of pride His admirals in billowy lines abreast Convoyed him close like galleons on the flood.

Full of a strength unbroken showed his face And his brow calm with youth's unclouded dawn, But round his lips were lines of tenderer grace Such as no hand but Time's hath ever drawn.

Surely he knew his glory had no part In dull decay, nor unto Death must bend, Yet surely too of lengthening shadows dreamed With sunset in his heart, So brief his beauty now, so near the end, And now so old and so immortal seemed.

O King among the living, these shall hail Sons of thy dust that shall inherit thee: O King of men that die, though we must fail Thy life is breathed from thy triumphant sea.

O man that servest men by right of birth, Our hearts' content thy heart shall also keep, Thou too with us shalt one day lay thee down In our dear native earth, Full sure the King of England, while we sleep, For ever rides abroad, through London town.

The Nile

Out of the unknown South, Through the dark lands of drouth, Far wanders ancient Nile in slumber gliding: Clear-mirrored in his dream The deeds that haunt his stream Flash out and fade like stars in midnight sliding.

Long since, before the life of man Rose from among the lives that creep, With Time's own tide began That still mysterious sleep, Only to cease when Time shall reach the eternal deep.

From out his vision vast The early G.o.ds have pa.s.sed, They waned and perished with the faith that made them; The long phantasmal line Of Pharaohs crowned divine Are dust among the dust that once obeyed them.

Their land is one mute burial mound, Save when across the drifted years Some chant of hollow sound, Some triumph blent with tears, From Memnon's lips at dawn wakens the desert meres.

O Nile, and can it be No memory dwells with thee Of Grecian lore and the sweet Grecian singer?

The legions' iron tramp, The Goths' wide-wandering camp, Had these no fame that by thy sh.o.r.e might linger?

Nay, then must all be lost indeed, Lost too the swift pursuing might That cleft with pa.s.sionate speed Aboukir's tranquil night, And shattered in mid-swoop the great world-eagle's flight.

Yet have there been on earth Spirits of starry birth, Whose splendour rushed to no eternal setting: They over all endure, Their course through all is sure, The dark world's light is still of their begetting.

Though the long past forgotten lies, Nile! in thy dream remember him, Whose like no more shall rise Above our twilight's rim, Until the immortal dawn shall make all glories dim.

For this man was not great By gold or kingly state, Or the bright sword, or knowledge of earth's wonder; But more than all his race He saw life face to face, And heard the still small voice above the thunder.

O river, while thy waters roll By yonder vast deserted tomb, There, where so clear a soul So shone through gathering doom, Thou and thy land shall keep the tale of lost Khartoum.

Srahmandazi*

Deep embowered beside the forest river, Where the flame of sunset only falls, Lapped in silence lies the House of Dying, House of them to whom the twilight calls.

There within when day was near to ending, By her lord a woman young and strong, By his chief a songman old and stricken Watched together till the hour of song.

"O my songman, now the bow is broken, Now the arrows one by one are sped, Sing to me the song of Srahmandazi, Srahmandazi, home of all the dead."

Then the songman, flinging wide his songnet, On the last token laid his master's hand, While he sang the song of Srahmandazi, None but dying men can understand.

"Yonder sun that fierce and fiery-hearted Marches down the sky to vanish soon, At the self-same hour in Srahmandazi Rises pallid like the rainy moon.

"There he sees the heroes by their river, Where the great fish daily upward swim; Yet they are but shadows hunting shadows, Phantom fish in waters drear and dim.

"There he sees the kings among their headmen, Women weaving, children playing games; Yet they are but shadows ruling shadows, Phantom folk with dim forgotten names.

"Bid farewell to all that most thou lovest, Tell thy heart thy living life is done; All the days and deeds of Srahmandazi Are not worth an hour of yonder sun.

Dreamily the chief from out the songnet Drew his hand and touched the woman's head: "Know they not, then, love in Srahmandazi?

Has a king no bride among the dead?"

Then the songman answered, "O my master, Love they know, but none may learn it there; Only souls that reach that land together Keep their troth and find the twilight fair.

"Thou art still a king, and at thy pa.s.sing By thy latest word must all abide: If thou willest, here am I, thy songman; If thou lovest, here is she, thy bride."

Hushed and dreamy lay the House of Dying, Dreamily the sunlight upward failed, Dreamily the chief on eyes that loved him Looked with eyes the coming twilight veiled.

Then he cried, "My songman, I am pa.s.sing; Let her live, her life is but begun; All the days and nights of Srahmandazi Are not worth an hour of yonder sun."

Yet, when there within the House of Dying The last silence held the sunset air, Not alone he came to Srahmandazi, Not alone she found the twilight fair:

While the songman, far beneath the forest Sang of Srahmandazi all night through, "Lovely be thy name, O Land of shadows, Land of meeting, Land of all the true!"

* This ballad is founded on materials given to the author by the late Miss Mary Kingsley on her return from her last visit to the Bantu peoples of West Africa.

Outward Bound

Dear Earth, near Earth, the clay that made us men, The land we sowed, The hearth that glowed--- O Mother, must we bid farewell to thee?

Fast dawns the last dawn, and what shall comfort then The lonely hearts that roam the outer sea?

Gray wakes the daybreak, the shivering sails are set, To misty deeps The channel sweeps--- O Mother, think on us who think on thee!